Remains
by ohbluelily
Summary: She says to yourself, this doesn't happen to me, has never happened to me, and she stares; at the snow, at the naked branches of that willow tree, how the scarlet makes way for a new river, a wicked one, against innocent white, bright white, and this really doesn't happen to her. Then— grey coat, platinum hair, a wand— hawthorn wood, unicorn hair core; she knew. Draco Malfoy.


They were losing.

Harry was fighting the fight he's been destined to fight since he was a toddler, and all of them were fighting because they _had_ to. Because there was nothing else.

Hermione understood. But this was too big a fight; even for them. They have been fighting for all of their lives. Evil was always right around the corner at Hogwarts, and being friends with The Boy Who Lived meant sacrifice. Meant survival at all times.

So, in that way, Hermione understood perfectly.

Now, outside the walls of Hogwarts, the school which made her stronger, better— surviving seemed difficult. Spell after spell; hexes, _stupefy_ 's _, expelliarmus_ 's _,_ she was running out of options. Running out of Spells of the Good Side. Her friends were dying, she knew, Death-Eaters were ruthless, Death-Eaters were here to kill, to vanish, to extinguish, to _kill,_ and they didn't hesitate about the Unforgivables, this was war, this was what all Wizarding World was waiting for, this was what Harry was ready for; dying, sacrificing for the _greater good_ , fighting till the last breath—

Hermione _understood_.

She did what was necessary. She _helped_. Always.

So when a masked Death-Eater threw an _Avada_ at Seamus's way, she threw the same spell at him. And it worked. He dropped at the frozen ground, still and quiet, the mask still on his face.

It felt exhilarating. It felt like justice. They weren't human; they never were. They were brainwashed puppets under an iron fist and it was their fault. They believed at the wrong vision. They believed _false_.

She didn't feel guilty. This was a _war_. She was getting the hang of it.

Seamus nodded at her, shocked but grateful. She nodded back. He ran towards the other side. She exhaled.

The Whomping Willow seemed to fight with them. It threw its branches left and right, up and down, carrying various creatures that got trapped in it that were on Voldemort's side. Hogwarts was alive and blazing. Snow was falling for the grey sky and you couldn't tell what time it was. Hermione supposed it didn't matter. She didn't want to know. From this side, the side she was standing, next to the willow tree, were few still fighting, most of them had gone at the bridge. Almost all around her were bodies; nameless student faces that were brave enough to fight, Death-Eaters with their silver masks on, black robes contrasting the snow-covered ground. Some acromantulas, sons and daughters of Aragog, Hermione knew from Harry and Ron (especially Ron, she thought, with a small smile), were upside down, dead.

She had to go now. She had to return to the school. She went too far away.

And then it happened.

Hermione almost didn't see them. Skeletal bodies, almost see through, crawling towards her, not too fast but not slow enough for her to react immediately.

And on the other side, Snatchers. Three of them. Smirking.

Was she really going to die? After everything?

 _Of course not_ , she quickly reasoned with herself. She was Hermione Granger. She could do this. She knew how.

Of course she could pull this through.

She pointed her wand at the _Inferi_. " _Arresto Momentum_!" The zombie-like creatures slowed down enough for Hermione to throw another spell at the Snatchers that were now running towards her.

" _Alarte Ascendare_!"

The three men were shot high in the air, giving Hermione the time to create a Firestorm to extinguish the Inferi.

Pointing her wand upwards, she moved her hand in a circular motion, to create the Firestorm. She had read about it; it was a charm that produced a big ring of fire. Harry told her that professor Dumbledore had used it against the Inferi in the cave, and so this was the perfect plan.

She threw the charm on them, watching their skeletal bodies burn and their high-pitched screams and moans filled her ears, making her flinch—she did not know they could speak. It was terrifying.

Still, she kept her wand pointed at them until the last one vanished into thin air before she ended the incantation. She then looked up, where she saw the Snatchers coming down in high speed, and she knew they would die from the fall. They would slam hard on the ground and smash their bones. And _she_ will have done this.

This is not her. That is a gruesome death and no one deserves this, no matter which side you're on or how evil you are. This is not what she chooses to inflict upon them, even if she knows they would've killed her in an instant. She just isn't that kind of person.

Hermione raises her wand to cast _arresto momentum_ once more, this time to slow the fall, but before she could even mutter the spell, she notices that one of the Snatchers is pointing his wand at her, a green glow coming from the tip and she knows.

 _Avada Kedavra._

You have to be ruthless at war. You have to do what's necessary to survive. She lowers her wand. Watches that man never finishing the deadly spell. Hears the splash. Listens to the crack. She never takes her eyes of the sky. The snowflakes are getting trapped in her eyelids. Her cheeks burn from the cold. She doesn't do anything to warm herself.

She killed four people today. She has never killed before in her life.

She hexed people, she took people's wands, she stunned people, yes, _yes_ , but all of that was temporary; no one was getting killed, her friends understood, they did the _same_.

She wonders if any of the Order members have killed today. She wonders if they felt anything, if they had the courage to look at their victims, if they are waiting for someone to understand that they had to do this, this is war, you kill or get killed—if they understand that she had to do this.

The _good_ _side_ was never about what she just did.

And she?

She plans, she knows every spell there is to know, she's sharp, brilliant, excellent executioner, yes, of course, she's Hermione Granger, she has been told this all of her life but—but she was never a _killer_.

She numbs herself of what she did.

She saved a friend, she constantly saves her best friends, she always is the one that saves a plan from utter disaster—

And so now she saved _herself_ and she knows, she just bloody knows, that _no one_ is going to look at her the same.

She can't help but wonder. Maybe what they don't know won't hurt them. Maybe she doesn't have to tell them.

Maybe they won't care either way. Maybe they've all understood that in a war, certain things must be done. No _if_ 's or _but_ 's about it.

She can only hope.

As she runs back to the castle, throwing absentminded _stupefy_ 's at whomever tries to attack her, she finally is able to distinguish the Dementors that are hiding behind the grey clouds. They're so many, Hermione shudders.

And then two of them are coming towards her. She masters a protective shield. It's not a patronus but it does the job and she holds it as long as she can, before she loses her concentration by something else.

Blood.

There is blood on her hands and her face and her clothes. The blasting light of the shield makes the Dementor go away, but she doesn't notice. She's frozen in place. Crimson liquid is dripping from her cheek and onto the snow and it's as though she stains it, this beautiful thing.

Magic doesn't _do_ blood. There are very few spells that stain. There is a silent scream stuck in her throat and she can't stop looking down.

She says to herself, this doesn't _happen_ to me, _has_ never happened to me, and she stares; at the snow, at the naked branches on that willow tree that is now quite far away from her, but still standing, proud and magnificent, full of magic—

The scarlet makes way for a new river, a wicked one, against innocent white, bright white, and this _really doesn't happen to_ _her_.

Then—grey coat, platinum blonde hair, a wand— hawthorn wood, unicorn hair core; she knew, Mister Ollivander had told them back at the safe house. This wand belonged to—

Draco Malfoy.


End file.
